The Last Stop Sign

The plan was simple: three old friends, two bikes, one long weekend. We’d known each other since school, and this trip to the hill station of Morni was supposed to be a break from our dull nine-to-fives. But the universe had other plans, written in oil stains and faulty wiring.

We left the city as the sun began its lazy descent, a hazy orange bleeding into the polluted sky. My bike, a battered Royal Enfield, had a headlight that had died a week ago. I’d patched it with tape and hope, but hope doesn’t illuminate a road at midnight. Rahul, my best friend and pillion, laughed it off, saying we’d just follow the others. Varun and Arjun rode ahead on their newer, faster machine, their taillight a mocking red eye in the distance.

The highway was a ribbon of black asphalt cutting through the Punjab plains, crowded with trucks that seemed to have a death wish, their horns blaring like angry elephants. We stuck close behind Varun, but as darkness swallowed the land, the gaps between us grew. My bike’s engine sputtered, starved for fuel, and I had to slow down. Rahul’s grip on my waist tightened.

‘We’re falling behind,’ he shouted over the wind. ‘Let’s stop at that tea stall we passed. They’ll notice and come back.’

We pulled into a dimly lit shack, its sign a faded ‘Amrit Tea Stall’. The owner, a wizened old man with milky eyes, served us chai in chipped glasses. The tea was sweet and strong, but it did nothing to quell the unease that had settled in my stomach. We sat on a charpai, watching the headlights of trucks flash by like demons’ eyes. The old man, seemingly reading my thoughts, hobbled over.

‘Where are you heading?’ he asked, his voice a dry rasp.

‘Morni,’ I said. ‘But we seem to have lost our friends.’

He nodded slowly. ‘Morni is a good place. But the road has many spirits tonight. It is the night of the new moon, when the dead wander.’ He paused, then added, ‘And there is a road you must avoid: the old NH-7A, the one that cuts through the forest. It’s shorter, but no one takes it anymore. Not since the bus accident.’

Rahul shivered, but I dismissed it. ‘We’ll stick to the main road. We’ll catch up with them soon.’

We paid and left, but my bike refused to start. The battery was dead. We were stranded. The old man offered to let us stay, but his eyes seemed to hold a warning. We decided to wait, hoping our friends would return. But the road stayed empty, a black river flowing into the night. After an hour, we gave up and pushed the bike to a nearby mechanic’s garage, which was closed. A sign on the gate said ‘Back in 2 hours’.

Desperate, I remembered a shortcut the old man had mentioned. It would cut through the forest and join the main road near the Morni foothills. ‘It’s shorter,’ I told Rahul. ‘We can walk or hitchhike. Anything beats waiting here.’

Reluctantly, we set off on foot, leaving the bike chained to a lamppost. The path began as a dirt trail, then narrowed into a crooked lane that snaked through a thick stand of deodar trees. The darkness was absolute, the only light from our phone flashes. The air grew cold, and the sounds of insects ceased.

We walked for what felt like hours. My phone battery dipped to zero, and Rahul’s was at 20%. He stopped to check a map, but the signal was dead. Then, ahead, we saw a glow—a faint, flickering light. We quickened our pace, thinking it was a shop or a house. But as we drew closer, we saw it was a bus, half-wrecked, its headlights still on, illuminating a lonely stop sign that stood crookedly by the roadside.

It was the bus from the old man’s story. The windshield was shattered, and the metal was rusted and twisted. We approached cautiously, but there was no one around. The bus seemed abandoned, but the engine was humming. A cold dread seized me. ‘Let’s go,’ I said, but Rahul was already stepping inside.

‘Maybe there’s a phone,’ he said, his voice echoing in the metal hull. I followed, my heart hammering. The seats were torn, and a layer of dust covered everything. The only sound was the engine’s low growl. I called out, but no one answered. Then, we noticed something: a single suitcase lying on a seat, its handle worn. Rahul opened it, and inside were old photographs—happy families, children laughing—and a journal. He picked it up and read the first page, his face pale in the light.

‘It’s dated from ten years ago,’ he said. ‘It’s a diary of a passenger. She wrote that the bus was going to Morni, but it never arrived. They crashed here. Everyone died.’

I felt a chill crawl up my spine. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

But as we turned to leave, the headlights flickered and died. We were plunged into darkness. We fumbled for our phones, but they were dead. Then, in the silence, we heard it: a soft sobbing, coming from the back of the bus. We froze. The sobbing grew louder, joined by whispers—many voices, overlapping, pleading. The air grew cold, and the bus seemed to shudder.

Panic surged. I grabbed Rahul and pulled him towards the exit, but the door was jammed. We rattled it, but it wouldn’t budge. The whispers turned into screams, and something cold brushed against my neck. I turned, and for a split second, I saw a figure—a woman in a sari, her face shrouded, pointing a finger at the stop sign outside.

‘The last stop,’ she hissed. ‘This is the last stop.’

We pushed with all our strength, and the door burst open. We tumbled out into the night, running without looking back. The bus’s engine revved behind us, a monstrous roar, and then fell silent. We didn’t stop until we collapsed on the main road, gasping for breath. A passing car eventually picked us up, and we made it to Morni by dawn, but we never spoke of that night.

The others were waiting, worried, but we gave them no explanations. We rode back the next day, our own bikes, and I had the headlight replaced. But even now, months later, I can’t drive down any road without glancing into the darkness, expecting to see that crooked stop sign and the ghostly bus, and the woman pointing, reminding us that for some, the journey never ends.